Last night, my husband and I went to the symphony. We saw a wonderful community orchestra play a Dvořák, a Tchaikovsky, and, one of my favorite pieces, Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5 "Emperor." If you don't already know this lovely piece of music, I commend it to you. (This link is just the 3rd movement, because the video I found of the whole piece was interrupted by a fast food ad, and that's just not right. Still you should hear the whole thing!)
I first fell in love with Beethoven's music when I saw the film "Immortal Beloved." (Yes, I know. A movie...) The film was great, and I discovered the magic of Gary Oldman. It was the music, however, that affected me the most. I quickly purchased the soundtrack, entirely comprised of some of Beethoven's greatest hits, and I listened regularly to it throughout my college years and beyond.
The orchestra we saw last night was unique. Though most members had trained extensively, and some were likely former professionals, none are full-time musicians except for the pianist, who was a guest artist. The first violinist was extremely pregnant, probably not with her first child. My own good friend in the orchestra is a busy mother of 5. The conductor had been a professional software engineer for many years. The ages of the musicians varied from 20s to 60s.
Considering none of the musicians play full-time, their work was completely beautiful. I was thrilled to experience the Beethoven concerto live, played so well and in a great venue. That said, having heard it hundreds of times on my professional recording, I noticed small flaws in the playing. I won't point them out, and that's not the focus of this post. Suffice it to say that it was still a community orchestra, albeit an exceptional one.
Just the same, I needed the concert and the music this week.
A few days ago, I had an audition defeat. I went out for a role that I knew was a bit of a long-shot, but I still brought the same ambition that I bring to every audition. At callbacks, however, I got my butt totally kicked by everything. The competition was fantastic, I clashed in look, size, and/or age with all of the leading contenders for the other roles, and I struggled to give the best reading of the sides. In one case, we were given a song on which I spent 30 minutes preparing, hoping to blow them away with my lovely A flat. At the last minute, we were given something else to sing. It was a long, draining 4 1/2 hours, which was then followed by my own sense of defeat as I climbed into my car and made the drive home to my husband and sleeping children.
It's all good. I just closed a successful show with an amazing cast a month ago, and hopefully there will be others before long. I like to win, though, and I didn't this time.
On another front, I'm currently directing a high school play. The cast is a group of wonderful, talented young people, the script is brilliant, and I have great ideas for how to make it exciting to watch and perform. This is also the first time I'm directing a show, and we have limited time and means to do this. I'm as terrified as I am excited.
Finally, the song "Finishing the Hat" from Sondheim's Sunday in the Park with George has recently been on my mind. Months ago, I saw Kelli O'Hara perform the song in a concert, and it was so glorious. It was also the first time I realized what the song really meant and, moreover, how much it applied to me.
For those unfamiliar with the song, George (based on the impressionist Georges Seurat) reflects on how he is incapable of compartmentalizing his work in order to save his relationship. He is always returning to the "hat" that he knows he must finish. He laments that "the woman who won't wait for you knows that however you live there's a part of you always standing by, mapping out a sky, finishing a hat." At the end of the 1st act, George loses the woman he loves forever due to this failing.
I get this. A friend and I recently commiserated over how difficult it is to stay present with our families, because we obsess too much over our creative endeavors. There is a part of me that is always thinking about my next audition, something stupid I said to a director or a student, my current project, my unending to-do lists (artistic and domestic, to be honest), etc.
How do these four things - the symphony, my failed audition, my directing debut, and Sondheim's brilliant song all relate? Well, I have to go back to the symphony to explain...
Halfway through the 2nd movement of the concerto, I was crying. The music had sparked such strong memories of a time in college when all I imagined for myself was life as an artist. I was going to be a professional actress and singer, and that was as far as I could see. I had promise, but I had even more passion.
As the music played, I reflected (for the millionth time) on how different everything was from what I'd mapped out. I never fulfilled my big dreams of working full-time as an actress. I never worked in Chicago or did a tour or Broadway. I never did anything outside of Utah or Wyoming. I never became the dancer or singer or actress I'd dreamed of becoming.
This time, however, I did not struggle with feelings of regret or resentment over how far I never went. Instead I felt...grateful.
Like those talented community musicians fitting their music into the windows of their lives and then reaching me with that music, I too have that privilege. I can do these great creative things in the windows of my family life. I feel so lucky. I can't have it all, but I can have it all.
My work will never be perfect. I will never be able to devote as much time as I'd like to my craft.
I have no idea what the next show is or how my directing debut will turn out or what the future holds, but I'm doing something. I may never know the full satisfaction of "finishing the hat" the way George did, but I'm so grateful that I can still make great art without having to pay the same price George paid.
By the 3rd movement, tears of joy flowed down my cheeks. All I felt was gratitude - for Beethoven, for those musicians, for the memories invoked by the music, for my failed audition, for the last show I was in, for the opportunity to direct, for hope for the future, and, most importantly, for my greatest opus - my family.
Every time I weep at a professional concert, film, or play because I can't "finish the hat" to perfection the way I would like, I need to remember those glorious community musicians who helped me last night. Their gift was more than enough to make a difference for me.
At the end of "Finishing the Hat," George feels the work is complete, and declares "Look, I made a hat where there never was a hat."
I am here to declare that you can redefine what it means to "finish the hat." The hat doesn't have to be perfect. It rarely will be. You don't always have to win in order to still matter. Sometimes always winning comes at too big a price.
You just have to keep making hats.
Make one, then another, and keep going. Make it the best you can with the time and skills you have. Give it sufficient time and effort within reason, and then accept when it's done and you can't do anymore.
I have a family. I believe in God and serve in my church. I teach Musical Theatre part time. I perform part time. I am directing a play and hope it will be a great experience for my students and those who come to see them perform.
In the perfect words of Stephen Sondheim, "Look, I made a hat. Where there never was a hat."
